Lingering
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Surprisingly, lyrium has no scent at all to it. Dorian x Cullen


**Lingering  
**

**Notes:** Wandering, idle thoughts after a throwaway comment from Dorian about templars smelling good.

.

* * *

.

Lyrium has a taste but no smell.

Not one that Dorian can sense at least. The liquid is candy sweet and tingles on the tongue. It hits his nose like too much mint but without the accompanying scent. It stabs into the mind and unfurls burning licks of fire through his veins, but without the accompanying pain one would think should come with the sensations. No, there's nothing but a mild euphoria when a mage drinks lyrium. Not unlike the first sip of a fine glass of wine at the end of a tiresome day.

It's different for non-mages he knows. For the southern Templars specifically.

In Tevinter they don't take lyrium. A Templar's abilities are solely martial. They provide the physical strength and protection a mage is usually too busy with spell casting to provide. Multitasking, as Dorian does, is a learned skill that not all can do. He's only so adept at flowing from spells to defense because he was taught from a young age to do so.

His mother had always had some odd notion of him being a battle mage. Which he is, just not the way she would have wanted.

Dorian shifts in his seat and exchanges one book for another. He's not really reading them. The books are just a prop for him as he's distracted by his own wandering thoughts. Thoughts about lyrium, its lack of smell, and southern Templar's that weave stubbornly through his mind's attempt to distract him.

Cullen's voice echoes down from above. The only noise aside from those damnable birds to ever be heard from the spy nest.

In Tevinter lyrium addiction is rare. Sure, there are some rich merchants who attempt to gain what they don't have through it, but lyrium is far too precious to be wasted in those endeavors. Taking it once though is usually more than enough to form a habit from what Dorian understands, and he almost thinks he can see why.

In a mage the lyrium runs along paths already open. Replenishing magic that naturally exists in the body. In those without magic, however, the lyrium would have to create those pathways. Forging them from nothing to fill up with an energy the person has not had their whole life to grow accustomed to thrumming just below their skin. The mild euphoria Dorian feels would be nothing compared to that rush.

And nothing he's ever felt when drained of mana could even approach the crushing weight of loss when the lyrium dries up and those pathways are empty.

Dorian's seen it only twice before, and neither are things he will ever forget. The desperation in the ruined merchants' entire beings had been both pitiful and disgusting. They'd wanted power and threw that desire into the flaming pits of addiction along with their wealth, fortune, and families. It had appalled Dorian to learn that lyrium use was abused so widely in the south. And by such a powerful group as well. Even fallen the Templar's were still a force to contend with, and Dorian had shuddered to think of what lengths men like them would go to for their lyrium fixes.

He doesn't think, in his wildest nightmares, he could have foreseen the horror of red lyrium. He's rather thankful for that at times. There's enough going wrong in the world without his own mind coming up with that kind of nightmarish twist every night.

Come to think of it, red lyrium doesn't have a scent either. It has a _presence_. Foul and sickly but obviously potent form the weight of it in the air. And that's just from standing near the stuff! He can't imagine how the Templar's ever managed to force themselves to ingest it.

Still it's the lack of smell that Dorian's pondering as he hears the familiar tread of boots that precede the Inquisition's Commander. Heavy and even, pausing only as they near his alcove. A barely perceptible stutter that Dorian only ever notices when the library is especially quiet. "Dorian."

Lyrium -blue, red, or otherwise- has no smell, but the people who take it regularly -even those who have stopped- _do_ have a smell. An incredibly hard to pin down smell that's rather intoxicating. Much like the substance is to them Dorian imagines. It is perhaps the closest Dorian will ever come to truly understanding those desperate addicts, because the faint hint of it on the air is enough to make Dorian shiver.

"Commander," Dorian places a thumb in the book to mark the page he hasn't even been reading and stands. He smiles as he steps close enough to the man that they can converse in low tones that won't disturb the others. That it puts him well within range to _smell_ him is an undignified side benefit that used to be entirely coincidental once upon a time. "Done with your meeting already? I didn't hear you being scolded for fattening the feathered pests again. Was our spymaster away from her perch?"

The smell Cullen gives off isn't as sharp as that given off by the Templars still taking lyrium, but it is there. Layered with a few other scents that rather compliment it. Turning the scent into something Dorian would like to wallow in as opposed to getting intoxicated from it.

"Those pests are some of our finest birds, and work harder than some of my men," Cullen rebukes with no small amount of amusement. He pointedly ignores the question about Leliana which is answer enough on its own. "I was wondering if you have some time free later?"

It doesn't help that Cullen alone is a rather attractive package. He has the rugged look that's not too common in the north. A southern barbarian with the build and ferocity to do every savage story told around drinks justice, and a noble sense of morals and loyalty that Dorian can use as fodder for dog jokes for months. A rough combination of things that really should not make Dorian even want to give into that urge to wallow.

"Valuable as my time is I find myself with a rather woeful lack of people trying to claim it," Dorian spreads his free hand wide to indicate the relatively empty section of the floor he occupies. He has all the best books nearby and still the other researchers and scholars huddle on the far end. Well away from him. "Should I dare to hope you'd like to meet for a drink at the tavern? To be seen by your soldiers finally unbending enough to carouse a little?"

No, Dorian already knows the answer, but watching him struggle with the question will never not be entertaining. No matter who elicits it. Dorian's still rather optimistic that one of these days one of them will get the man into the tavern and then Dorian will die happy. In a bar with something vaguely decent to drink and Cullen's unique scent? Dorian would either have to die or put a few chairs between them to not do anything incredibly stupid.

Like lean forward to bury his face in the wild mane of hair from something he's fairly sure Cullen hunted down himself. Dorian catches himself as his knees start to give and his body sways the slightest bit. He spins to place his book on a shelf. Taking the time to do so neatly to clear his head and nose.

"No, I was thinking of another game," Cullen says with a tired sigh that doesn't hide the laughter in his voice. "To hopefully get your skills up to a level where you don't feel the need to cheat all the time."

"And where is the fun in that?" Dorian leans back casually against the shelf. Crossing his arms and affecting a pout. The Gardens then. For the best really. The openness of the outdoors is the only defense against the urge to wallow. The breeze is always stiff and only rarely will it bring a teasing hint of scent his way. "If I don't keep you on your toes I fear your skills will rust away to nothing!"

"Unlikely," Cullen steps back with a nod and leaves. Steps heavy and even with no more pause or stutter to them. He'll send a runner when he has time and then they'll play a round or two of chess before one of them gets pulled away. Cullen usually.

Dorian absently pulls a book from the shelf. It doesn't matter which one. He won't be reading it or doing much of anything really for a while. Moving his chair is easy enough, he does it often to catch the sun, and no one even looks at him twice when he settles back down. Fingers turning the pages reflexively and his mind centered on the heady scent that lingers long after Cullen is gone.

Lyrium has no scent but the people who take it do, and that is almost as dangerous as the potion itself it seems.

.

.


End file.
